


Tied Up By The Past You Hold

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Child Abuse, Sickfic, just another origin story, making up for the lack of hugs in-game one fic at a time, pre-game, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: In a spur of the moment decision, Dutch and Hosea rescue a young boy from a beating in some backwater town.Trouble is, now they’re not entirely sure what to do with him, and this whole ‘parenting’ thing is a lot more difficult than Dutch thought it would be.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 37
Kudos: 280





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, two things:
> 
> 1) I thought it was canon that Bessie spent part of her time with the gang and part of it on a homestead, and Hosea would alternate between the two. But re-listening to Hosea’s dialogue during _Exit Pursued By A Bruised Ego,_ it sounds like there’s no evidence for this, so I must have read it in a fic somewhere, but for the life of me can’t remember which one. So apologies to whichever fic author it is I’ve accidentally stolen the idea from (it’s a great idea!)
> 
> 2) No one (including Rockstar) seems to be able to make their minds up on how old Arthur was when he met Dutch and Hosea, but the official guidebook says 14 so we’re going with that.
> 
> Title is from ‘Good as Gold’ by Greyson Chance.

Dutch remembers, when he was about sixteen or so, sitting in a saloon in some no-name town and listening to a trapper tell stories about all the weird and wonderful things he’d seen out in the wilderness. One story in particular stuck with him; that of a grizzly bear that came across a den of cougar cubs, and was doing its damned best to get to them. Whether it wanted to eat them, or just recognised their scent and wanted to eliminate future predators, the trapper didn’t know. But the big beast was smashing its paws down onto the packed earth, trying to break into the den – the trapper could hear the cubs’ pathetic yowls from where he watched with binoculars. Then, out of nowhere, a big moose cow came charging in, roaring and bellowing, hooves flying. She _rammed_ the grizzly, then landed a good kick to its head. Stunned, the bear scarpered. The moose paced around the area for a bit, then when she was seemingly satisfied that the bear wasn’t going to return, wandered back into the trees. 

It turned into quite a heated debate among the patrons – why would a moose protect cougar cubs, when they might grow up one day to hunt her or her own babies? Maybe she just really didn’t like bears, one of the yokels suggested. Maybe she was in the family way herself, the barman offered; said that when his missus was pregnant, she’d start crying if she saw a baby-anything – child, puppy, bird, you name it. And the trapper had agreed with him – said it could be some sort of maternal instinct kicking in. Or perhaps, he declared sagely, it could be there’s an instinct within all of us, man or beast: the instinct to protect the small and helpless, when they are so obviously and unfairly outmatched. 

Years later, Dutch wonders if it’s that same instinct that makes him draw his gun on two more yokels, in some other backwater town, who are currently endeavouring to beat the seven types of hell out of a little boy behind the saloon. The two men square up, tell him to fuck off, that this is none of his business. Then there’s a second gun hammer click, and Hosea calmly suggests they move along. Faced with _two_ armed men, they quickly scramble away, leaving the boy coughing in the dust. Dutch goes to help him up, and gets a punch in the jaw for his efforts.

“Leave me alone!”

More surprised than hurt, Dutch rubs his smarting chin and eyes the kid. Fists clenched, poised to either flee or throw another punch; he’s young, maybe ten or eleven years old. But there’s a hard look in his unusual blue-green eyes, one that Dutch is used to seeing on people much older – tough eyes that had seen a tough life. 

“Easy, kid. We aren’t gonna hurt you,” Hosea soothes, putting his gun away and holding his hands up in an appeasing gesture, “what’d those two want with you anyway?” 

The boy glares at him.

“What’s it to you?” he snaps.

“Well, seeing as we just saved your scrawny hide from a beating, I’d say we’re owed an explanation, boy.” Dutch glowers at the kid – and is a little impressed when he glowers right back.

“What my friend means,” Hosea interjects, giving Dutch a glare of his own, “is that we hope they don’t have a reason to come back for round two. There aren’t too many men who don’t back down at the first sight of a gun. Why were they so intent on giving you a thrashing?”

The boy scoffs.

“One of ‘em caught me tryin’ to slip something into his pocket. Happy?”

“You mean you got caught pickpocketing?” Hosea asks, tone sympathetic rather than judgmental. The boy looks slightly surprised, but then quickly goes back to scowling.

“No!” He puffs up a little, an edge of pride creeping into his voice. “I picked their pockets just fine! Got their cash, their watches, a real nice cigarette case...” But then he deflates. “But I realised I’d taken a locket from the big one that had a picture of his ma in it. ‘Least, I think it were his ma... So I tried to put it back. _That’s_ when I got caught.” 

Over the boy’s head, Dutch and Hosea share a look.

Instinct kicks in. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Dutch asks. The boy eyes him suspiciously for a moment, then crosses his (stick-thin) arms, jutting out his (bruised, swollen) chin, standing at his full (diminutive) height.

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

* * *

Fourteen. The kid is four-goddamn-teen. But he’s so... _small. _

“Well, that’s what happens when you don’t feed a growing boy right.” Hosea huffs, anger laced through his tone as the two of them sit by the campfire. But he keeps his voice down, casting a worried glance to the pup tent they’ve bought for Arthur. He’s been with them over two weeks now, but they’ve only recently managed to get him his own tent – he’d refused to share with either of them, preferring instead to sleep on a pile of hay (even if it did mean he sometimes awoke to a horse munching on his mattress – in fact, that’s one of the few occasions Dutch ever sees the kid smile). 

He’s reticent about his past, but they’ve managed to learn a few things about him from what he has told them. He’s an orphan; his mother was called Beatrice, and had died when he was little, and his father, Lyle, was hanged for multiple counts of larceny when he was eleven. He’s lived on the streets ever since, picking pockets (a skill his father had taught him at such a young age that even Hosea made a face) in order to survive. He’d spent a while in Chicago, but after one too many brushes with the street gangs he’d begun stowing away on trains, hopping from town to town, leaving again when people started to recognise his face. His worldly possessions boil down to a photo of his mother, a mugshot of his father, and a hat that’s far too big for him, but that he’s ferociously protective of. And by God, he _is_ ferocious, feral even. Snappy, sarcastic, and defensive near all the damn time. He’s slightly nicer to them than he was two weeks ago, but overall regards them with constant suspicion, no matter how many assurances and platitudes they give him.

Dutch wonders aloud, late one night once the boy is asleep, if they shouldn’t just drop him off at an orphanage, or find some stable or lumber yard for him to apprentice at. He’d had grand ideas about raising the boy, teaching him about the truths of the world, about the real meaning of freedom; sharing the torch, as it were, with the next generation. Not to mention the boy’s one hell of a pickpocket, always returning to them with his own pockets clinking whenever they left him to his own devices for a bit in town. But he hadn’t expected the kid to make it all this damn difficult. Maybe he was more trouble than he was worth.

Hosea thwacks him for even suggesting it.

“He’s _scared,_ Dutch. Can’t you see that?”

Because they’ve learned a lot about Arthur from what he _doesn’t_ tell them.

The boy hates being touched. He flinches away from the slightest contact, even just a touch on the arm or a pat on the back. While standing by Arthur, Dutch had raised his hand to point something out, and the kid had _bolted_ into the trees, leaving Dutch equal parts stunned and confused. Only when he heard Hosea sigh, and saw him gazing after Arthur with a sad look, did he realise what just happened, and why. They get used to having to telegraph every move they make towards him, otherwise he spooks like a skittish horse. The same goes for if they raise their voices, even if their tone isn’t angry; while they were riding earlier in the day, Hosea had called out something jokingly to Dutch, and Arthur had recoiled so sharply he fell off Lucky Penny’s rump and into the road. Their shouts of dismay had only made him curl in on himself all the more.

“You know, that wouldn’t have happened if you would just hold on properly when we’re riding,” Hosea had admonished gently even as he dismounted, leaning down to help Arthur up. But the kid had batted the helping hand away, and silently climbed back up onto Penny, shoulders hunched, head ducked to hide his face under the brim of his hat. Despite the fall, he still wouldn’t hold on to Hosea, only the back of the saddle. He’s barely uttered a word since, hiding in his tent as soon as they got back, refusing his dinner despite Hosea’s best attempts. Simply glowered at them with that same hard look.

When Dutch goes to check on him later in the night, he finds the boy asleep, curled up in the bedroll that he had stared at, dumbfounded, when they gave it to him along with the tent.

_ “This is all... for me? Just for me?” _

But he can still faintly see the tear tracks on the boy’s face. 

Dutch has met some nasty bastards in his life, but he’s beginning to harbour a special and deep resentment for Lyle Morgan.

* * *

The first time Dutch gets drunk, Arthur runs away.

They’d managed to swindle some arrogant antiques dealer into paying a small fortune for Dutch’s ‘dear great grandmother’s priceless jewellery’, Dutch playing the part of the spoiled heir of some European aristocrat fallen on hard times, and Hosea as the rival buyer. The man was apparently notorious for buying up heirlooms of the recently deceased from their families, tutting and sighing over their low value, then freighting them to the cities and selling them on for an absolute fortune. So they’d scammed enough from him to keep them going for a good few weeks, as well as to make a generous donation to a local Convent that doubled as the only hospital in the region. And now they’re celebrating, with wine and beer and some aged whiskey Hosea had managed to pilfer from the antiques dealer even as they left the store. The gramophone is playing, Dutch is swinging an imaginary partner around in a bastardised waltz while Hosea laughs at him, and everything is right in the world.

“Hosea! Hosea you should be dancing too!” Dutch proclaims. “Where’s Bessie? Why isn’t she here?”

“Not here for another three weeks, Dutch!” Hosea reminds him with a chuckle, taking another swig of the whiskey.

“Well, Arthur can dance with you then!” Dutch declares, “the boy’s gotta learn to dance. It’s a criss- cruss- _crucial_ part of any young man’s education! Arthur! Arthur my boy, where are you?!”

He stumbles to a stop, looking around, laughter fading when they realise he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur?” Hosea calls, pulling the needle from the gramophone.

Silence.

They share a look, before moving as one to the little tent. Hosea pulls back the flap, and makes a wounded noise. 

Almost everything is in its usual place – the bedroll, the little chest they had given him to store his things in, the warm jacket Hosea had bought for him the day they met him. But Arthur, the pictures of his parents, and the hat are all gone.

* * *

Hosea’s the one who finds him in town, four days later. Dutch doesn’t know what he said to the boy, but somehow he managed to convince Arthur to come back with him. When they ride back into camp together, Arthur looks pale, exhausted and nervous. But they don’t even mention his little sojourn – Hosea immediately sets about fussing over him, heating some water so he can have a wash, insisting that he eat something. Dutch keeps his distance until Arthur is safely tucked up in his bedroll again. Then he simply crouches, leans into the little tent.

“You okay? Need anything?”

Arthur shakes his head, watching him anxiously. Dutch gives him a smile.

“It’s good to have you back, son.”

Maybe he should have stayed away, left the comforting to Hosea. There’s really not a big enough age gap between them for Dutch to be calling him ‘son’, and he wonders if Arthur’s going to find it patronising and get snarky with him even as the words leave his mouth. But instead, Arthur gives him a small, tentative smile of his own. 

Instinct’s a funny thing. 

Dutch resolves to never get drunk in front of the kid again.

* * *

The night before they’re due to meet Bessie at the nearby station, Dutch jokes that Hosea’s going to have to tell his wife that he’s adopted a fae child, like the ones in the fairy tales. Because Arthur may be distrustful, or outright hostile to most of the people he meets, but the same sure as hell can’t be said for animals.

He’s besotted with the horses. If Dutch manages to leave his tent quietly enough in the mornings, he can catch him petting and cooing to them. There’s never a damn carrot or apple to be found in camp anymore, and they’ve had to start hiding the sugar. But Dutch ain’t gonna complain, because the horses have never looked so good – coats gleaming like silk, hooves shining, manes and tails tangle-free – except where the kid puts little braids into them.

Trips to town are now guaranteed to take longer, because the boy stops to pet _every single dog_ he meets – and cat, and donkey, and just about any other friendly beast he can get near. They end up spending a whole day in a stock town just because Hosea can’t bear to drag him away from the pen of orphaned lambs he’s climbed into. Dutch usually respects Hosea’s opinions, but had nearly swallowed his cigarette when Hosea murmured, 

“The farmer’s selling them as pets for the local children, you know...”

Dutch had managed to dissuade him from that particular notion, though he did feel a bit mean when they eventually called the kid away from his new fleecey friends. Two days later when they exited the general store to find the boy covered in kittens, the mama cat purring contentedly at his side, Dutch preemptively grabbed Hosea’s shoulders and spun him away from the scene, marching him back to the horses.

“Don’t even start – we ain’t spending all day here again,” he grumbled, even if he did feel like a monster when he called for Arthur to follow them.

Still. It’s nice to see the kid smiling every now and then.

* * *

It starts with a cough.

Looking back, Dutch probably should have asked the kid why he was refilling his canteen so frequently the past couple of days – if he’d told them he had a sore throat, maybe they wouldn’t have carried on up into the mountains, would have stayed closer to town, where they could get warm rooms and proper hot meals, even a doctor if it came down to it. But the kid is still shut up tighter than a clam around them, except for Bessie; within only a few days, she’d managed to chip away some of that prickly, sassy exterior, and he’s a little more forthcoming with her. But that woman could get a grizzly bear to tell her its woes, so Dutch isn’t too surprised Arthur’s warmed up to her. But it seems he didn’t mention anything even to her; it’s Dutch who hears him coughing as the boy’s brushing Caesar’s mane. 

“All right there, m’boy?” he asks as he comes up behind him. Arthur jumps, whipping around, and Dutch raises an eyebrow. The kid’s usually pretty alert to anyone approaching him.

“M’fine.” Arthur replies – which seems to set off another coughing fit.

“You sure about that?” Dutch asks dubiously once he’s recovered.

“I’m fine! Just got a tickle in my throat,” he croaks.

Dutch narrows his eyes at him, then reaches out – Arthur recoils, but his back collides with Caesar. It allows Dutch to brush the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead – only for a second before he’s ducking to the side and smacking Dutch’s hand away, glaring at him. But it’s long enough.

“You’re warm. Too warm.”

“I said I’m fine! Leave me be, dammit!”

Dutch raises his hands in surrender, rolling his eyes. He’s really gonna have to teach the kid some manners. But fine – Dutch isn’t in the mood for being insulted for trying to be considerate. The kid can be Bessie’s problem for the evening.

* * *

When Dutch goes to check on Arthur the next morning, he’s gone.

“Oh for the love of...!” Dutch casts a look around frantically. All the horses are still here, even the pack pony, so the kid’s gone on foot. Christ, he’s gonna get himself eaten by a bear. They’re extra hungry and vicious this time of year, Dutch has heard.

“Hosea!” he bellows as he heads for Caesar, intent on tacking him up and going out to look for Arthur immediately, and giving him the dressing-down of his life when he finds him. God, what if he really does get eaten by a bear? There’s a knot of... something in Dutch’s stomach. He doesn’t have the words to identify it, but its cold and unpleasant and worming its way up into his chest.

What if they never find him?

“Dutch?”

“Saddle up, damn kid’s run away again!”

“He’s in here!”

Dutch pauses, blinking at Hosea’s tent for a moment, before dumping his saddle and hurrying over. Sure enough, Arthur is huddled into the bedroll between Hosea and Bessie. Hosea is sitting up, but Bessie is curled around Arthur, faced pinched with worry.

Arthur’s face is as white as the pillow beneath him, except for two high points of colour on his cheeks.

“Got woken up by him coughing in the night; when I went to check on him, he was delirious. Didn’t know who I was, or where we were,” Hosea explains, looking down at Arthur with an equally worried expression. “And he was so cold! Had to carry him in here so we could try and warm him up.”

“We have to go back, he needs a doctor,” Bessie insists as she smooths a hand over the boy’s head. Arthur doesn’t respond at all to the touch.

“We’re halfway through the pass; going back is gonna take us as much time as carrying on to Riverhead,” he distantly hears Hosea say as he continues to stare down at Arthur. He looks even younger without the near-permanent scowl. Shit, he’s so, so small. The cold feeling seizes up Dutch’s chest entirely. 

“...utch? Dutch!”

He blinks, realises the other two are looking at him.

“I... what?”

“I said, it’s your call. Head back, carry on, or wait here. But we’ll have to lash him to whoever he rides with, even if he does sit up front. And I’m worried we won’t be able to keep him warm enough in this wind...”

“Then we stay,” Dutch says, pulling himself together. “We stay, and we look after him until he gets better, or at least until he’s well enough to ride.” 

He’d like to think he sounds assured, confident. But he can’t take his eyes off Arthur’s ashen face. 

He’s so small, and it’s so unfair, and yet there’s nothing Dutch can do about it, instinct be damned.

* * *

Three days later, Arthur’s no better. They take it in turns – always making sure the boy is wrapped up with an adult on either side, or sitting with one of them by the fire. Now, Hosea’s holding him close, as Bessie coaxes him into eating some of the soup they’ve made. He only manages a little before he turns his head away, a soft whine of protest escaping him. 

“Come on Arthur, just a little bit more,” Hosea encourages, smoothing the boy’s hair away from his face, but the kid just hides his face in Hosea’s shoulder and shivers. 

“Now, come on son.” Dutch tries to sound gentle, but firm, brooking no nonsense. “You’ve got to eat something to keep your strength up.” Maybe he’ll respond better to a more insistent approach. Arthur does turn to look at Dutch – but his eyes are still glassy and unfocused.

“...why’reyouhere?” he rasps after a moment.

“What?”

“Why... r’you still here?”

“What do you mean, Arthur?” Hosea asks, but Arthur’s still facing Dutch, confusion mixed with exhaustion.

“Why ain’t you left me yet?”

Bessie makes a distressed sound, Hosea wraps his arms tighter around the boy.

“Arthur, we’re not going to- to _abandon_ you, why would you say something like that?” he asks, dismayed.

“I’m not... I don’t...” He has to pause to cough, but then meets Dutch’s gaze tiredly. “Only reason my pa never ditched me when I got too sick... to useless to work, is ‘cause he promised my ma. You-” more coughing “-ain’t ever have to make a promise like that. So why... why’re you all still pretendin’ to care?”

It’s barely above a whisper, but the sheer _resignation_ in the boy’s voice is enough to damn near break Dutch’s heart. 

And he’s not like Hosea; he’s never thought of himself as the paternal type. A leader, a patriarch-figure, sure. He could see himself teaching some hypothetical young’un, or even young’uns, plural, about the way the world really is, passing along words of wisdom, making inspiring speeches, that sort of thing – sharing that torch. But he never thought he’d find himself staying awake all night, either because he’s cradling a sick kid to his chest, trying to keep him warm, or because he can’t sleep for worrying about said kid. And maybe it _is_ just instinct kicking in – he’s getting to his mid-twenties, isn’t that when most ‘civilised’ men start to settle down? But dammit, the boy’s grown on him. Sure, he’s difficult half the time and a little shit for the rest, but he’s got some _fight_ in him that Dutch admires. Maybe, some gentler part of his soul would admit, even loves.

He shifts a little closer, putting one hand on the kid’s shoulder, gently cupping his cheek with the other. Tilts him slightly until those strange blue-green eyes meet his once again.

“Now listen here, son. You ever heard the phrase ‘blood is thicker than water’?” Arthur blinks slowly, but gives a small nod. “Now, lotsa folks seem to think that it means your blood family is the most important thing of all. But that ain’t the whole saying. The whole thing is ‘blood is thicker than water, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the waters of the womb.’ You know what that means? It means the family you make for yourself, the family you _choose,_ is more important than anything. And you, me and Hosea? And Bessie? We’re a family. We stick together through thick and thin, we have each other’s back, we give each other all we have. And we never, ever abandon each other.” 

For the first time, sick and shaking and overwhelmed, Arthur lets them see the tears falling from his eyes. Dutch gently wipes them away with his thumb, moves closer to embrace the boy from the other side.

“We ain’t gonna abandon you, _ever._ And you ain’t abandoning us now, you hear?” Dutch murmurs into the kid’s hair. Arthur nods, soft sobs combining with weak coughs as he buries his face into the crook of Dutch’s neck, one arm coming up to cling to him as tight as he can manage, the other hand clutching at Hosea’s jacket. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. We’ve got you, it’s okay.” Hosea soothes, running a hand up and down Arthur’s back, Bessie beside him with her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. They stay like that for who knows how long; eventually, Dutch eases himself back to lean against a tree stump by the fire, still cradling Arthur close – he’s pretty sure the kid’s fallen asleep again, and he doesn’t stir at the movement. With final worried glances, Bessie sets about making some proper dinner, while Hosea fetches a blanket, drapes it over Arthur and Dutch.

“He’ll be okay; he’ll pull through, I know it.” Dutch says, with far more confidence than he feels. 

And to think, a few weeks ago he was considering leaving Arthur behind. And maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s love. Or maybe it’s just folly – he’s spent so much time on the kid that he’s reluctant for all that effort to go to waste, like a man trying to salvage a bad investment by throwing more money at it. 

But now, as he tucks the blanket more securely around the boy, he can hardly bring himself to imagine the very-real prospect of life without him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s one of those crisp mornings, the ones that sting your throat and make your nose and cheeks tingle – the ones that tell you winter is well and truly on the way. Hosea reckons there’ll be snow in these mountains within a few weeks. They need to pack up and leave, soon. But for now, Dutch is content to stay right where he is – staying warm thanks to the fire, a mug of coffee clasped in his hands, and the little body tucked into his side.

“We... need the too- ton-ick of... willed-ness...”

“That’s ‘wildness’, but go on.”

It had taken five days in all before Arthur started showing signs of improvement, started being able to do more than sleep and cough while huddling against them. But while the lethargy and the coughs began to dissipate, the clinginess didn’t. It’s like a dam has burst inside the boy, like some protective wall has finally come crumbling down. He’s gone from flinching away from all touch to not being able to get enough of it. He’s still hesitant about approaching them – still bizarrely afraid, as if they’ll reject him after everything that’s happened. But all they have to do is open an arm, and he takes the invitation immediately, constantly pressing himself into their sides whenever they sit by the fire. They’ve discovered that stroking through the kid’s hair has much the same effect as tickling a cat under the chin – he relaxes in seconds, leaning into the touch, eyes drifting shut. It’s a quirk Bessie’s been exploiting without mercy these past few nights when he won’t go to bed when they tell him – one minute Arthur will be arguing that he’s fourteen, he’s not a child, he’s not really sick anymore, he can stay up for hours longer than they let him, he’s not even tired – and not five minutes later, he’s asleep in her lap, not stirring even when an amused Dutch or Hosea scoops him up to put him to bed.

They’ve also discovered that the boy can’t read. How the hell he managed to hide the fact for over two months is beyond Dutch – but it’s convinced him they’ve got the makings of a little conman after all. Apparently his mother had started teaching him before she passed, but his father had been of the opinion that ‘you don’t need to be able to read to rob people’ and hadn’t continued any schooling attempts for his son. So, they’ve started teaching him themselves, using the few books they have at camp. Hosea and Bessie had firmly ruled Miller out (“Do you want to put him off reading forever?!”), but Thoreau was allowed. Though Dutch doesn’t see how that’s any better – the kid seems to enjoy puzzling his way through the descriptions of the landscape and animals well enough, but he nearly threw the book at Hosea when it came to the merits of different types of grain. Bessie, bless her, managed to salvage that particular lesson by telling the kid about all the different things she grows on her homestead, and all the different animals she has to protect her vegetable garden from. Arthur had listened like a child being told about the world’s greatest candy store.

“Could I come and visit, some day?” he’d asked shyly. 

“Darlin’, you can come visit me whenever you like,” she’d assured, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Now, what page were you up to?”

Last night, they made one more surprising discovery. Hosea had given Arthur an old lined notebook to practice his letters in, and had been pleased to see the boy scrawling away, deep in concentration. But the kid had looked sheepish, mumbled something about it not all being writing. When they’d asked to see, he’d reluctantly shown them the filled pages. Some had words, but the rest were filled with drawings – ninety percent of which were the horses and other animals, but also sketches of the landscape around their camp. The final one was a sketch of a couple, recognisable as Hosea and Bessie, dancing by the campfire. Bessie loved it so much she asked if she could keep it, much to Arthur’s apparent confusion.

“They’re just scribbles...” he’d mumbled.

“Nonsense! I reckon we’ve got a little Da Vinci on our hands!” Dutch had crowed, which only made him blush harder. So of course, they’d heaped on the praise, until the kid was beet-red and hiding in Bessie’s shawl.

“...that all t-things be... my... my-ster-aye-oos- mysterious?”

“That’s it. Well done, son.” 

Arthur ducks his head, blushing again, and Dutch chuckles, giving his shoulders a squeeze. Some day, he’ll have to teach the boy how to take a compliment, but for now it’s pretty endearing how he flushes with the tiniest amount of praise. Dutch tries not to think about what that must mean about the previous adults in Arthur’s life.

“What’s he talkin’ about anyways? Ain’t like you can put ‘wildness’ in a bottle at sell it at the doctor’s.”

“An excellent question!” Dutch grins. “Now, here’s where Thoreau and I are in agreement. He’s saying that human beings need the wilderness to live, to stay sane, to _thrive._ Think about it – nearly all the woes of modern society come from so-called ‘civilisation’ – mountains are being replaced with factories, rivers are being replaced with toxic cesspits, birds are being replaced with smog, all to benefit the handful of people at the top! But people should be able to live wild and free; free to do as they please, equal to each other and answering to no one. That’s why we do what we do, Arthur. We take from the fat cats who profit off the backs of-”

“Dutch, it is _far_ too early for a philosophy lesson.”

Dutch makes a face at Hosea as he and Bessie emerge from their tent.

“Hosea, the boy needs to know-”

“The boy needs his breakfast,” Hosea says pointedly. Dutch rolls his eyes, but grabs the bag of oats anyway.

“So... you’re sayin’, everyone should live like we do? In tents?” Arthur asks slowly. 

“Well, why not?” Dutch beams at him, glad something’s stuck. “Man living close to nature, free to roam as he pleases and do as he likes, as it should be!”

“Huh...” Arthur murmurs, chewing his lip, clearly deep in thought. Dutch flashes a smirk at Hosea, who just shakes his head with a small smile as he pours the coffee.

“But...” Arthur pipes up after a minute, “if there’s no factories, where’s the cloth for all the tents gonna come from?”

Dutch glares as Hosea and Bessie try to hide their snickers behind their mugs.

* * *

A week later, Arthur’s artistic endeavors catch someone else’s attention. They’ve finally made it to Riverhead, and he’s _supposed_ to be watching Dutch and Hosea play a few hands (and swindle a few fools) at cards in the saloon. Half an hour later and twenty dollars up, they look around to see he’s vanished – only to find him outside, alternating between drawing and petting a retriever tied up on the porch. Dutch looks at Hosea, then rolls his eyes in silent submission – they can stay a little longer. But he’s not halfway through his cigarette when one of the better-dressed patrons exits the saloon and stops up short. 

“My word! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Odie look so noble!”

Both Arthur and the retriever jump up – the dog wagging its tail, Arthur snapping his new sketchbook shut, immediately wary.

“I was just-”

“No need to apologise young man! I should be thanking you for keeping him company. And those drawings did look rather splendid – may I see them up close?” 

Arthur glances uncertainly at Dutch and Hosea. The man follows his gaze and notices them.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. You must be this lad’s...” he tails off, looking between the two of them.

“Guardians,” Hosea finishes for him, extending his hand, “Matthew Bennett,” he introduces himself.

“Jim Cook.” Dutch adds, also shaking his hand. 

“Thomas Callahan. Pleasure. Are either of you to commend on this young man’s artistic talent?”

“No, no, Arthur got that all by himself,” Hosea smiles, giving Arthur an encouraging nod. Arthur still looks unsure, but reluctantly opens his sketchbook again. 

“Is Odie his name?” he asks as he shows Mr. Callahan the drawings.

“Indeed. Well, Odysseus really, but that’s far too many syllables to be shouting when the fool’s chasing after a bighorn. Typical – I get myself a duck hunting dog, and he’s only interested in sheep. Probably got it from watching the collies – I own the Callahan ranch,” he waves a hand dismissively up the road, “I say, these really are very good. He’s made you look halfway intelligent, old boy!”

The dog gazes back in happy incomprehension, while Hosea clears his throat.

“The Callahan ranch? Is that all the red and white buildings we saw on the way down here?”

“Indeed. Come through White Pine Pass did you? A bit late in the year isn’t it? The bears are out and about en masse at the moment – been giving my shepherds no end of trouble. Not to mention...” he pauses, eyeing Dutch and Hosea – or more specifically, their gun belts.

“I’ve been having a few ah, other pest problems. I’ve been looking for someone to deal with them.”

“We ain’t in the business of animal control,” Dutch says curtly. Friendly dog and appreciation of Arthur’s drawings aside, there’s something about the man that just – rubs him the wrong way. His clothes are too nice, his accent too posh, his manner too genial. Not to mention he owns that massive ranch – they’d been able to see it from miles away. He’s the picture of ‘civilisation’ on the frontier. Dutch has to stop his lip from curling.

“No? What about human control?”

_That_ takes them by surprise. He and Hosea share a look.

“We have been known to deal with the odd bounty or two...” Hosea says cautiously.

“_Substantial_ bounties,” Dutch adds.

“Of course, of course. This one would be _very_ substantial. But, I fear this is not the time or place. Why don’t you join me on my ranch? And you,” he turns back to Arthur, “can meet Odie’s puppies.”

“Puppies?” Arthur immediately perks up.

“Indeed, seven of them – sweet little things. Only opened their eyes a few days ago.”

Arthur tries valiantly – and fails – to not look hopeful as he glances as Dutch and Hosea, and Dutch resists the urge to roll his eyes again. 

“Certainly,” Hosea smiles before Dutch can turn the man down, “we have some affairs to attend to in town; why don’t we meet you tomorrow, some time in the morning?”

“Indeed!”

* * *

Mr. Callahan, as it turns out, wants them to deal with a group of bandits that have taken up residence in the foothills. They’ve been stealing his sheep, threatening his shepherds – and the odd girl or two has gone missing from town as well. Worst of all, apparently, they seem to have abducted the town’s new preacher.

_“It means I had to give the sermon last Sunday – and I really don’t have the time for such nonsense. I don’t care what you do with the bandits – I was planning on letting the winter starve them out anyway – but I do ask you bring the Reverend back alive if you can. He’s very good – young, earnest, actually believes what he’s preaching, you know the type.”_

_“And what’s stopped you from rounding up some boys in town and dealing with them yourself?” _

_“Mr. Cook, the people of Riverhead are good people; honest, hard-working, and kindly. They’re also stupid, more inbred than my sheep, and so superstitious they make most sailors look like rational men. I’d be better off rounding up my rams for the job!”_

“And I suppose _we’re_ rational men, taking on a group of bandits, just the two of us?” Hosea asks as they ride out from the ranch – bypassing paddock after paddock, filled not only with fluffy sheep, but glossy thoroughbreds too (“I just do some studwork as a hobby,” Mr. Callahan had dismissed airily when Arthur had admired a handsome brindle stallion that trotted over to sniff at his pockets.)

“Relaaax. You heard the man; it’s just a handful of bandits that rely on rumours and piles of animal bones to keep people away, they ain’t gunslingers. We’ll go over there, scare ‘em off with a few shots, grab this preacher of theirs, and the girls, then head on back and grab our _five hundred_ dollars. The hardest part is gonna be prying Arthur away from all those puppies.”

They’d left Arthur at the ranch to stay overnight, at the insistence of Mrs. Lydia Callahan – a real southern dame she was, insisting they all have their fill of pecan pie and sweet green tea, practically force-feeding Arthur a second piece (“A growing boy like you, we gotta feed you up!”). He’d pleaded with them to let him come along, promising he’d stay with the horses, he wouldn’t get into any trouble, but all the adults had agreed it was far too dangerous. But when Hosea had talked about dropping Arthur back at their lodgings first, Mrs. Callahan had told them that the girls went missing on dark, overcast nights – like tonight was shaping up to be, so they really shouldn’t dally, and young Arthur was perfectly welcome to stay here of course. Arthur had looked between them all uncertainly, and Dutch nearly refused – but then the puppies were let inside. Last they’d seen of the kid, he was on the floor, being thoroughly mauled by seven balls of blonde fluff and looking absolutely delighted about it.

Hosea hums thoughtfully.

“Speaking of which,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking – Bessie goes back next week.”

“Mmm – you plannin’ on heading back with her this time? Arthur and I will manage fine - he’ll miss you though.”

“Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Been wondering if it might best if the boy goes back with her.”

Dutch yanks on the reins hard, drawing an annoyed snort from Caesar as he comes to a stop.

_“What?!” _

Hosea pulls up beside him, an annoyingly reasonable expression on his face.

“He’ll have a home there. Have a roof over his head, we’ll clear out the bigger store room so he’s got a room to call his own. Could go to the local school, make friends with the O’Farandale’s kids...”

“Why the hell would we send him away?!”

“Weren’t barely a six weeks ago that you were suggesting we leave him in an orphanage!” but Hosea’s tone is more surprised than accusatory.

“Yes, well, that was then, this is now.”

And he’s surprised at himself, honestly. Why _not_ send the kid back with Bessie? It’d certainly make things easier – he and Hosea were happy to rough it, could and had crossed states in a matter of days when they had to. But since finding Arthur, they’d started to make sure they always set up camp somewhere, had a proper little home they could come back to, or leave Arthur at when they were out on jobs that were too dangerous for him to tag along on. Had started making sure they had more than a few tins of food lying around. Hell, they even had _furniture_ now – a little table and some chairs. They could do away with all that, if Arthur went back with Bessie. But... he likes the kid. Likes teaching him things, gets an odd sense of pride whenever the boy manages to get through a sentence without stumbling over any of the words, or manages to get Penny up to a canter without losing his seat. It’s... gratifying. And maybe that’s it – maybe it’s just a giant ego boost, seeing as the kid’s gone from being afraid of them to something close to adoration.

But the other night, he’d been lying on the grass with Arthur, pointing out all the different constellations, telling him about the old myths linked to each one – and after a while realised he’d fallen asleep on him. So he’d started to pick the boy up to put him to bed. But when he got his arms around him, Arthur had murmured, snuggling closer... And Dutch found he was happy just to lie there, cuddling the kid. Maybe because he didn’t want to wake him up - he was still a tad poorly after all, and Bessie would have Dutch’s head if she thought he was stopping him from getting the rest he needed. Or maybe just because... it was nice. And the thought of sending him away now is bringing back that horrible cold, tight feeling in his chest.

Hosea eyes him thoughtfully for a moment, before trying again, gently,

“I’m not saying we never see him again. He can come with Bessie whenever she visits, and when he’s older he can come see us whenever he likes. But he’ll be _safe_ there.”

“What makes you think he ain’t safe with us?!”

Hosea throws him an exasperated look.

“Dutch, we’re a couple of conmen. We steal for a living. It’s no way for a child to live.”

“We _redistribute_ wealth that’s been unfairly taken from honest, hardworking people.”

“Yeah yeah, a right pair of Robin Hoods we are, but-”

“Besides, he already stole for a living! He’s nearly as good a pickpocket as we are!”

But Hosea still looks unconvinced, so Dutch switches tactics. 

"Have you even considered how this would make Arthur feel? What further damage it would do to the poor boy?"

"The hell is that supposed to mean?! What's wrong with Bessie-"

"_Nothing_ is wrong with Bessie - she makes for a fine mother, and I know Arthur is going to miss her when she leaves. But how do you think he's going to feel - we make grand speeches about being a family and never leaving each other-

"_You_ make grand speeches," Hosea corrects dourly.

"-and _then_ we go and ship the boy off to the farm? I ain't no brain doctor, but even I can see the poor kid's got abandonment issues coming out of his ears. He'll take it to mean we don't want him around no more, you know he will." His tone gentles, looking his partner in the eye. "He's just learned to trust us Hosea. Sending him away - it'll break him. Surely it's better for him to be roaming with us - surely it's better for him to have two parents most of the time, rather than one?"

Hosea is looking at him with an unreadable expression, so Dutch continues,

"Besides, I know Bessie's homestead is lovely - very picturesque, very... serene. But tell me, do you really think a boy his age _isn't_ going to get bored out of his mind? He's got that love of being wild and free, same as you and me. He should be out in the road with us, not-"

"All right, _all right,_ I get your point." Hosea sighs. "And... I suppose you're right, in a way. About him needing more family. I'll talk to Bessie."

And Dutch is surprised at how the relief is so intense it makes him giddy. He looks away across the valley for a moment to compose himself. When he glances back at Hosea, he’s gazing at him thoughtfully, a barely-concealed smile on his lips.

"What's that look for?"

"Heh, nothing. I just never thought I'd see the day when Dutch Van der Linde turned into a family man."

"Oh, spare me. Now come on – five hundred bucks for taking out a handful of bandits? It’s almost enough to turn a man to honest living!"

* * *

There are, as it turns out, more than a handful of bandits. And they do, as it turns out, have more than animal bones to defend themselves with.

Dutch curses, ducking back behind a rock as a bullet whizzes by. He and Hosea have become separated, but he can hear gunfire further along the ravine the bandits were holed up in, so he assumes he’s still alive. This is all, quite frankly, ridiculous – Dutch has no qualms about putting a bullet in someone who shot at him first, but he’s killed six people in the past couple of minutes, and by his reckoning is gonna have to kill at least three more who have him pinned down behind this rock. Thomas goddamn Callahan should’ve called in the army – no wonder he was offering five hundred dollars. Maybe, Dutch thinks ruefully, he never intended to pay up – just sent the two of them down here in the hopes they could thin out the herd a little before getting shot themselves. Wonders if the Callahans even let Arthur stay a moment longer after he and Hosea disappeared into the hills. 

_Looks like you might be going to live with Bessie after all, kiddo._

They’d told Bessie they were headed for the ranch – hopefully she’ll come looking for them before the Callahans’ hospitality expires, if they haven’t turfed Arthur out already. Christ. If they don’t get out of here, poor kid’s going to lose two of the three people in the world who give a shit about him. 

Dutch can’t let that happen.

Holstering his gun for a moment, he tugs off his jacket, bunches it up into a ball. Listens – he can still hear Hosea’s own gunfight, and the jeers of at least two men from behind and to the right. That leaves the third one unaccounted for. Maybe he’d gone off to fight Hosea? Time to find out.

He tosses the jacket out to his right, then immediately takes a large step to the left and rises, listening for the gunshots as he does so. Sure enough, three pistols take the bait – two on his right at his level, and one above. He snaps his gun hammer back three times, and they all go down even as he brings up his secondary pistol. Breathing hard, he pauses – but no one else shoots at him. Abandoning his ruined jacket, he starts towards where he presumes Hosea is – when there’s a fourth gun hammer click. He freezes. Hears a chuckle, low and nasal, behind him. Two thoughts pass through his head.

One: he’s pissed off that he didn’t get to see the face of his killer, didn’t get to look the man in the eye.

Two: _I’m sorry, kid._

“THE LAMP OF THE WICKED SHALL BE PUT OUT!”

The shout is accompanied by an almighty thump, and then the muffled sound of a body hitting the ground, and Dutch whips around in surprise.

The bandit who presumably had been pointing his gun at Dutch’s back is now on the floor. Standing over him, with a massive book clutched in his hands, is a man in a rumpled but recognizable clergyman’s outfit, with a shock of red hair and a wide-eyed expression.

“Oh, oh good heavens, did I kill him?! I only meant to stop him from committing murder...” he babbles, staring down at the man.

“I’m sure he’s just unconscious,” Dutch says, toeing at the man’s body then snagging his revolver. “Now if you’ll excuse me...”

He dashes towards the remaining gunfire – less of it now, he thinks – and skids around a corner just in time to see Hosea put a bullet through the forehead of the last bandit. They look at each other, then around – but no more come.

“Mr. Callahan owes me five hundred dollars _and_ a new jacket.” Dutch grumbles as he clasps Hosea’s arm and pulls him upright. “You okay?”

“Fine, though my hat’s got a hole in it now.”

“_And_ a new hat. Think I found the preacher, you see the women?”

“Up here!” a voice cries out. They both look up, and sure enough, there are three women tied up on a ledge further along.

“Oh thank the Lord, we thought no one was ever gonna find us!” one of the girls cries when they reach them.

“Are you ladies hurt?” Hosea asks has he and Dutch pull out their knives and get to work on the ropes.

“No – they roughed us up a little,” starts one.

“But they figured they could get a higher ransom if they didn’t, y’know...” finishes the third. Twins, Dutch realizes, looking between them.

“Well, you’re safe now. We’ll get you back to town.” Hosea assures them, when there’s a clattering noise and they turn to see the preacher man has finally caught up to them.

“Does anyone require... medical assistance? I have- have medical training...” he huffs.

“You must be the reverend Mr. Callahan told us about,” says Hosea as he cuts the last girl free.

“That I am,” the man sucks in a breath before straightening. “Reverend Swanson, at your service,” he introduces himself, extending his hand. 

“Jim Cook. And I should be extending my services to you sir; I owe you my life! I’ll have to buy you a drink once we reach town,” Dutch exclaims, shaking the man’s firmly.

“I am merely a shepherd of the Lord’s flock sir, there is no need to thank me. Besides - I do not partake in such vices.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll have to find some other way to make it up to you one day.”

“Wow, you saved his life Reverend?” one of the women gushes.

“That he did! Used his holy book to stop some lowlife who had his gun pointed at me.”

“The word of God is a powerful thing,” Hosea muses, lips quirking.

“That it is,” Reverend Swanson declares loftily. And then, in a smaller voice, “especially when it weighs twenty pounds...”

* * *

The bandits had no horses of their own, so by the time they get back to town, the twins on Caesar, the other woman on Lucky Penny, and the rest of them on foot, it’s well into the wee hours of the morning. They deliver the women back to their homes – the twins especially effusive in their thanks, saying they work at the saloon and the two of them can come around for free drinks whenever they like – and part ways with Reverend Swanson, who declares he will credit their bravery in his next sermon, and that the Lord will surely not punish them for the sin of murder, as they were agents of His Righteousness against wicked souls.

“Divine forgiveness is nice, but I think I’d rather be paid in cash,” Hosea yawns. “Want to head for the ranch now or later?”

Having been assured of Mr. Callahan’s character by the Reverend during the long walk back, Dutch shakes his head.

“The horses are exhausted. _I’m_ exhausted. We’ll go in the morning. Let Arthur have a night with those pups.” 

“He’s probably sleeping in the dog basket with them as we speak,” Hosea chuckles, as they trudge over to the saloon that doubles as a hotel.

It occurs to Dutch, as his head hits the pillow, that while he is very much looking forward to _five hundred_ dollars, _cash,_ he’s looking forward to having the kid back just as much. But he’s asleep before he can puzzle that one out.

* * *

“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan are in the garden with your ward, Sirs. Just head on down the hall.”

They thank the maid, and step through the enormous farmhouse – more a villa. Dutch eyes the silver photo frames and all the knick-knacks that reek of ‘precious heirloom’, his fingers itching. Hosea swats his arm in warning. Dutch just rolls his eyes at him. But as they near the door that must lead out to the garden, Mrs. Callahan’s voice floats through an open window.

“Actually, darling, there’s something Tommy and I wanted to ask you. Before your... guardians get back.”

Hosea and Dutch glance at each other.

_‘Darling’? _

Dutch nods to their side – Hosea gets the idea, and they both duck down behind a window seat, a bookshelf concealing them from the rest of the house. From there, they can peek through the lace curtains. There’s Arthur, sitting on the perfectly manicured lawn, surrounded by the puppies. Mrs. Callahan is sitting in a lawn chair, with her husband resting his hand on the back. It takes Dutch a second to figure out why Arthur looks strange – he’s wearing new clothes. They’re well-fitted, smart. _Civilised. _

“How old are you, Arthur?” Mr. Callahan asks.

“Fourteen,” Arthur answers slowly, “...why?”

They hear Mrs. Callahan tut.

“Just like I thought. Oh sweetheart – why haven’t they been feeding you right?”

“Who? Dutch and Hosea?”

And they both cringe at that. Probably should have drilled the rules about aliases into the boy’s head before now...

“Who?” Mrs. Callahan sounds baffled.

“Uh... I mean, Jim and Matthew. That’s my, uh, nicknames for ‘em. Because Jim is... from The Netherlands. And Matthew, is, um...”

“It doesn’t matter. They clearly aren’t raising you right.”

Dutch bristles. So does Arthur.

“They’re raisin’ me just fine!”

“Darling, when was the last time those clothes of yours were washed properly, before yesterday? Some of them clearly weren’t even your clothes, they were far too big!”

“Well...”

“And you said you got sick in the mountains and all they did was feed you soup.”

“What? No, they did plenty more than that!” 

“And you said there are no other children, where you live? Don’t you get lonely?”

“I can always go talk to the horses...”

“Well, we have plenty of horses here my boy!” Mr. Callahan interjects.

“And a school, full of other children you could play with.” Mrs. Callahan adds.

“...why’re you tellin’ me this?”

They can see Mr. and Mrs. Callahan look at each other, before Mrs. Callahan begins, gently,

“Sweetheart... God has never blessed us with children of our own. And recently, we started talking about maybe adopting. Finding some sweet young thing who’s had a rough start in life, who deserves better. And now, here you are! It’s like it was meant to be.”

She leans forward, brushing a hand over Arthur’s hair, and even from here they can see that he barely flinches at the touch. But, he’s only known the woman for twenty-four hours...

“So... how would you feel about staying here, with us? You could go to school with children your own age, and help Tommy with the thoroughbreds, and if you get sick we’ll call the doctor straight away. You could be Arthur Callahan.”

And then she goes in for the kill.

“And you could keep all the puppies and other pets that you want.”

To hell to with secrecy – Dutch is going to march out there and demand to know what that woman is trying with _his_ boy. But a hand on his shoulder stops him – and he expects Hosea to give him a warning shake of the head, to try and dissuade him from blowing their cover – he’s probably going to suggest a nonchalant entry, like they just arrived. 

He does not expect the sad smile. 

They’ve only known each other a year, but Dutch can read that look like the words have been spoken aloud.

_Let him choose. _

And Dutch falters.

_But he’s OUR boy! _

But here he’d be warm, and safe, and have school and friends and puppies and pecan pies, and clothes that fit and medicine if he gets sick. 

_But he’s OURS. MINE. We’re meant to be a_ family _godammit! _

Dutch tries to hold on to the anger – it’s the only thing drowning out that gentler part of his soul, which is wailing in despair.

But then,

“Why the hell would I wanna live here?”

“Beg pardon?” Mrs. Callahan looks taken aback.

“Why’d I wanna live somewhere that smells like sheep shit? With all your stupid rules and scratchy clothes... And you use five forks! ‘The hell needs five forks to eat their dinner?!” Arthur gently tips the puppies out of his lap and stands. “Thanks for the offer ma’am, sir, but no thanks. I’m gonna go wait by the gate, they should be back soon.”

And the sweeter, cuddlier Arthur was nice and all, but oh, Dutch was starting to miss that snark.

Arthur heads the back door, leaving a stunned Mr. and Mrs. Callahan behind him. Dutch and Hosea have the wherewithal to quickly shuffle back into the hallway, just in time. Arthur opens the door, freezes when he sees them – then his face splits into a smile that melts something in Dutch’s heart.

“You’re back!”

He _throws_ himself at them – and they catch him, enveloping him in a three-way hug. 

“Of course we are,” Hosea laughs, “you think we wouldn’t be?”

“I was worried...” Arthur admits softly, tucking his head into the crook of Hosea’s neck. Dutch detangles himself from the two of them, strolls out to meet the Callahans, not even trying to hide his smugness. Mr. Callahan has smoothed his face back into his genial look from before, but his wife makes no attempt to hide her sour expression.

“Back so soon!” he exclaims, “did you have any success?”

“We almost got shot to pieces.” Dutch replies bluntly.

“You what?!” Arthur yelps from behind him. Whoops.

“_But_ we handled it,” Hosea reassures, before turning back to the Callahans, “got your reverend and the missing ladies back to town at some ungodly hour this morning, if you’ll forgive the pun. The Misses Taylor say they owe you a drink for sending someone to rescue them.” 

“Indeed? Well, isn’t that splendid! I cannot thank you enough-”

“Oh I’m sure you can,” Dutch says pointedly, folding his arms. 

“Pardon? ...Oh, indeed!”

To be fair to the man, he coughs up the bounty – all five hundred dollars of it. With the money safely tucked away their satchels, and Arthur back in his own clothes, they head back out to their horses. Arthur of course has to give a goodbye pat to the puppies – and to the friendly brindle that’s wandered over again (and that Dutch now has half a mind to come back and steal, in retribution for trying to steal _his_ boy). They say their farewells to a bemused Mr. Callahan and a sulking Mrs. Callahan, and head off from the house. 

“What was it like? Were there lots of bandits? Did you have a shoot out?” Arthur pesters them with questions from behind Hosea, arms clinging around his waist.

“How about we head back to the saloon and get Bessie, treat ourselves to a hot dinner, and we’ll tell you all about it?”

“Sounds like a plan!” Dutch declares. “It is _quite_ the tale, m’boy. Puts a whole new meaning in ‘Bible thumper’!”

It’s turned out to be a beautiful day – fathomless blue sky a stark backdrop to the white-peaked mountains, and only a faint breeze behind them. But it’s still strong enough to carry the conversation from the entrance of the house to where they’re setting off down the main road through the ranch.

“Curious couple, aren’t they?” they hear Mr. Callahan muse.

“Certainly.” Mrs. Callahan replies bitterly, “though I can’t say I’m sad to see them go. Nor their unruly son.” 

“Gave them a hard time did you Arthur?” Hosea asks lowly with a smile.

“Only when they tried to make me follow their dumb rules.”

“Hah – do no harm, take no shit, right kid?” Dutch smirks. Arthur grins, and does his best impression of Thomas Callahan’s prim accent. 

_ “Indeed!” _

They urge the horses into a gallop to cover their laughter.

* * *

Dutch is, upon reflection, rather drunk.

Once Arthur, and then Hosea and Bessie had gone to bed, Dutch was left to chat and flirt with the twins and finish his drink. But the girls, ever so thankful as they were, insisted on making good on their promise and giving him just one more drink. Then a second. Then... some more, Dutch lost count. And then, giggling and laughing and making jokes about his pistols, they led him up to another room and showed him _just_ how grateful they were to the mysterious gunslinger who’d saved them, and _that_ was something ticked off his life’s To Do list. But now Dutch is standing in the hallway, boot in each hand, wearing just enough clothes to be decent, and trying to remember which door is his. 

This, he determines, is not going to be a problem. He’d herded Arthur to bed hours ago, the kid over-full and sleepy from too much lamb stew, so he’s bound to be asleep. So all Dutch has to do is get back to his room (as soon as he figures out which one it is), quietly get through the door, shut the door, lock it again, cross over to the bed, shed what’s left of his outer wear, and get into bed without waking the boy up. If he has a hangover in the morning, he can just fob it off as being a long couple of days. 

With a plan of action, he tries his key on the first door, mumbles an apology to the angry occupant of the room, then tries the next, and the next, until the key finally slides home and turns. The fire in their room’s still crackling, and he can make out an unmoving lump under the blankets. Good, this is good. Now he just has to shut the door, turn the key-

He fumbles and it clatters to the floor.

“Mmfgh – whossit..?”

Dammit.

“Just me kid, go back to sleep.” He might be talking a tad slower than usual, but he’s determined not to slur his words.

“Dutch..?”

“That’s right.” But it comes out too loud, and dammit, why can’t he be a quiet drunk like Hosea? Arthur tugs the covers off, rolling over to look at him. And Dutch must look even more of a state than he thought, because immediately his eyes widen.

“Arthur-”

But he’s already scrambled off the bed, pressing back into the far corner of the room. And Dutch can’t help but sigh. This is ridiculous. Does the boy _really_ think he’s gonna hurt him, after all this time? Boots abandoned, he starts towards him, hands raised slightly in a pacifying gesture.

“Arthur, come on, enough of this.” But the kid _cowers_ at his tone, and Dutch looks at him, really looks. He’s poised just as he was the first time they met him – ready to fight or flee. But instead of suspicious, his eyes are wide, fearful. And for a moment Dutch thinks it’s the drink messing with his vision, making things quaver around the edges. But then he realises the boy’s trembling. 

Hosea would probably tell him to back off, to give him some space. Really, he should probably call Hosea or Bessie in here to calm the kid down. But he’d told them to enjoy their own room, he could share with Arthur, it would be fine. He thinks about his conversation with Hosea, only the day before. _It’s no way for a child to live._ But no – Dutch will prove he was right. They can look after the kid, they can, he just has to trust him...

He crouches down on one knee, a little ways from Arthur, trying to make himself look as small and unthreatening as possible. 

“Arthur? Arthur, look at me.” Arthur’s eyes had been tracking his hands – but after a moment, he meets his gaze. 

“Arthur. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise kid. I might have had one too many, sure, but I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not him, Arthur. I’m not him. You’re safe with me. I promise.” He keeps his voice low, lulling, the tone he usually reserves for spooked horses. Slowly, carefully reaches out. “C’mere, kid. Come on. It’s okay. You’re okay...” 

Arthur hesitates, but eventually edges towards him. Still holding himself stiffly. Bracing himself, Dutch realises belatedly, for the hit he still thinks is coming. And his heart breaks all over again, when the boy flinches once he’s close enough for Dutch to lay a hand, gentle as he can, on his shoulder.

“Son, listen to me,” he murmurs, slowly bringing up his other arm to lay his both his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing in soothing circles. “I know you’ve had a bad time of it, kid. I know your daddy must’ve hurt you. But that was wrong. He shouldn’t have done that. And I ain’t gonna do that, I promise you kid. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Okay? I ain’t ever gonna hurt you.” Arthur looks up at him, and closer up, he can see the frightened tears threatening to spill.

“Oh, Arthur. C’mere...” 

He tugs him closer, wraps his arms around him, holds him gently, murmuring whatever soothing nonsense comes to his head. If Dutch has one skill, it’s telling people what they want to hear. Usually he uses it to rob people and have them thank him for it. He never thought he’d have to convince a scared child that he’s not about to get beaten. But finally, it works, and Arthur’s arms snake up to clutch around his neck, the kid hiding his face against Dutch’s collarbone.

“Shhh, it’s okay, let’s get you back to bed, come on...”

He carefully picks him up, gets them both settled, fumbles about with one arm until he can snag the blankets and pull them over the both of them. Brings one hand up to card through his hair, the other stroking his back, still talking in that same soothing tone, until the kid finally sighs and starts to relax. 

“Okay now, Arthur?” 

He only gets a sleepy hum in response, as small hands leave his neck and come down to loosely grip his shirt instead. His own eyelids drooping, he keeps up the gentle touches until Arthur’s gone boneless, still draped across his chest. Then he loosely wraps his arms around the kid, settling back with a sigh. There’s a warm feeling in his chest, which usually he’d put down to the whiskey. But then Arthur mumbles sleepily,

“Dutch?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. F’r ev’ry’thin’.”

And no, he’s never thought himself as the paternal type. But he doesn’t think he can blame the warm feeling on whiskey, or even instinct, not anymore. The boy’s sarcastic and bright and difficult and curious and troubled and sweet, and he makes it impossible for Dutch to have more than a couple of drinks, or travel light, or even simply walk past a dog. But dammit, turns out he loves the kid.

He wraps his arms around him a little tighter.

“You’re welcome, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the term ‘bucket list’ didn’t come about until 2007! But if Dutch had one, ‘sex with twins’ was probably on it.
> 
> Anyway, this was my attempt to reconcile the Dutch we see in-game with the Dutch Arthur ‘loves like a father’ and is so loyal to. I know there are some who think Dutch was a manipulative, abusive, gaslighting arsehole from the start, but I reckon he must have been good to Arthur at some point to inspire such loyalty (and I don’t think Hosea would have stood for Dutch abusing a kid). So, I imagine early-years-Dutch as someone who still can be pretty self-absorbed, and is very much used to getting his own way (and is a bit of a womaniser), but who does genuinely care for those he considers family, including Arthur. Hopefully that’s what I got across with this fic!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading <3


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